He stepped back from the window, swiped at the misty condensation absentmindedly, steadying himself when the movement put him off balance. He squinted down at the bottle he held, saw there was less than a shot remaining, drank it down quickly, wondering if he'd opened this bottle tonight or last night. He turned and sank back into his chair in the darkened room.
He hadn't known what to expect when he showed up to dinner. She was noticeably nervous. They were drunk before dinner. She allowed his hands to linger on hers as they opened a second bottle of wine together. Her eyes were a mesmerising blue, and her hair looked soft. Her blouse draped over her, shimmering at her curves. It was the same material, the same hue as the one she'd worn when he'd first truly acknowledged to himself how quickly he had developed feelings for this woman and how deep they ran. He tried to absorb every detail, to both torture and comfort himself with when he was miles away. They'd eaten, talking little, comfortable to look at each other, drink each other in as much as the expensive wine. She was drinking faster than him, either building up courage or determined to pass out before she had to say goodbye. She'd admitted she couldn't lie to him, had been so heartbreakingly close to him, so perfect then that he'd reached down and kissed her. He hadn't been sure of her reaction, hadn't known she would kiss him back, let her tongue sweetly peruse his mouth, her eyes closed, body so close to his. He'd pulled back, opened his eyes for a brief moment to find hers, so blue, lively and scared, looking back at him. He'd kissed her again without meaning to, knowing then that he was overstepping the boundaries that she herself had drawn. Knowing this was why he was leaving, so he didn't draw them both into a temptation that had been threatening to consume them both after the first look. Knowing, still, he loved her, wanted her to know she was loved.
He kissed her forehead, breathed in the scent of her once more, and said goodbye. He knew she would have slept with him, in the bed Sandy and she shared. Knew, too, that she would regret it for the rest of her life. He didn't want to be a regret for her. He didn't want to make love to her in a bed she shared with her husband, wondering whether she would be thinking of Sandy while he was inside her. He wanted to be the one she would wonder about, as he knew he would undoubtedly, by choice or not, wonder about her.
He left the light of the kitchen, wondered dimly whether he should be driving with this much alcohol running through his bloodstream. He made it to his house, stumbled through boxes in the living room to make it to the bottle of vodka in the kitchen fridge. He took it with him to bed, and it had been his constant companion since.
From the chair, he could reach his phone, and he replayed the message once more. He'd debated with himself about leaving the necklace, had finally decided to give her a reminder of him before his memory was truly gone, remind her what had nearly been. Hearing her voice, the indecision, made him wonder if it was the right choice, but her final words; 'don't call back' were said with an uncertain tone. He knew she was wondering, knew she was still thinking about him. He also knew, unless he saw her again, he'd have to finally stop thinking about her. He'd have to slowly allow himself to forget to feeling of her body against his, the smell of her hair, the way she would tap a pen when thinking, the way she only smiled and never laughed… The look in her eyes when they'd sat on the bed together, and again when he'd kissed her goodbye. The taste of her name on his lips… All these things he had been trying to forget, not for her, but for his own reasons. While ever he was drowning himself in the memories of her, he was drowning himself more heavily in vodka. He still loved her, the very thought of her, the way she haunted him at night time. She was a nymph, a muse, a thought he willed himself to stop thinking, but couldn't. She was embedded so deeply in his psyche that thoughts of her and Sandy together cut him to the bone. She was perfection embodied, unbreakable, an infatuation that he couldn't untangle himself from no matter how hard he tried and how much alcohol he had to use to drown himself in.
Before he could stop himself, Carter picked up the phone and dialled a number that he should, by now, have forgotten. That he shouldn't have memorised to start with. Her answering machine greeted him, her recorded voice permeating his alcohol-soaked brain, capable of wreaking havoc with him even over hundreds of miles of phone cable. He waited until the beep, choked as he started to talk, not knowing what to say. He hung up after several seconds, berating himself for not being able to talk to this woman with whom he'd shared more of his thoughts with than his ex-wife. Berated himself for calling her at all, as he had for too many nights now. But he'd thought he would have forgotten her by now; she was like a drug, he'd assumed, and would leave his system eventually. But this eventuality did not seem to be taking place. He thought back to their first dinner; he'd felt a glimmer of hope when he'd noticed she wasn't wearing a wedding ring. She was married though but, by the sound of it, not happily. He could tell straightaway that she was lying about losing it. Could tell something had happened to make her take it off. He knew, too, that his wife had taken off her wedding ring as a sign of their impending divorce. He hoped the same was true of Sandy and Kirsten.
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